<span class="sdata" title="30"></span> <span class="sdata" title="12, 2017"></span>

Why 2018 Is New Year AF Till 2020

By |<span class="sdata2" title="2017-12-30T16:29:30+00:00"></span>|Capricorn, Mother Cosmosis, Motivation, My Apartment, Resolution, Star Sign Shit, Uncategorized|0 Comments

WHY 2018 IS NEW YEAR AF TILL 2020

We reach that point in the year when endings become new beginnings, farewells become greetings, an’ most evrywan gets titsed offa their assholeflaps on alcohol an’ Noo Year rezzo frickin’ lootions.

As an astrologer person, I see both smart an’ stoopid in this unique moment.

The whole resolootion deal is smart because

1) Change is inevitable, so why not make an effort to command it?

2) Sumtimes you gotta tidy upya life — especially frickin’ Geminis.

3) When evrywan is pullin’ on sumthin’ together it makes stickin’ with the willpower an’ followthru seem so much easier, even though it actschwlly ain’t — like weary marathon runners encouraged by their peers to go the distance or world-beatin’ burger eatin’ champs motivated by the cameras to swallow quarterpounder #57 an’ rupture evrythin’ between their oesophagi an’ their buttholes.

The stoopid part is even easier to nail — an’ that is where Mother Cosmosis comes in (quite literally, as it turned out).

Oh Yippee! — Are You Going To Tell Us A Story, O Princess?

tbh I was merely gonna relate a poignant anecdote, but ifya are so desperate for entertainment, mebbe I will embellish, add flourish — an’ plain ol’ lie

Dunno what YOU were doin’ the weekend before Christmas, but I was crashed out in my apartment nursin’ nostrils streamin’ like a cumshot compilation.

My weary head ached, my stomach gurgled, an’ my limbs were so darn limp even an Ultraspazz Flopout Yoga routine was beyond me.

Trooly, I feared The Reaper.

So I am leanin’ against my refrigerator, mixin’up a cocktaila miscellaneous flooids an’ meds, when a familiar breach in the Time-Space-WTF Continuum opens up beside my lifesize cardboard Benedict Cumberbatch erecto-display … an’ celestial vapors waft into view.

“Got any stronger meds than Cerebellufen?” I say as Mother Cosmosis steps outta the Void. “My hippocampus is about to go frickin’ viral.”

M.C. flashes me her best FFS Balestra, why do you always insist on ruining my trademark spectacular entrances with lame excuses for existence that subvert the meaningful dialog I had planned … and ultimately beach us both in the worst kind of limbo where only exaggerated nightmare date stories offer any kind of succor? smirk — an’ slaps me hard in the back. “Just cough it all up and you’ll be fine, darling.”

Gotta admit, she sure dislodged sumthin’ there — but I was still walkin’ all wonky right up till Christmas.

“We need to discuss the hope and aspiration festival that is New Year,” she says, jammin’ a bowl under my achin’ jaw an’ pummelin’ on my back even harder. “People are so desperate for practical lifehacks at this time of year that even diehard Christian evangelists are prepared to look in on their horoscopes for clues to guide them forward through the unrelenting — and frankly, Godless — darkness. It’s a great time for bitch-crazy astrogals like ourselves to pull in the bucks for a Summer vacation someplace swanky.”

I cough up a chipotle & vodka whirlpool. “So what’s our theme? Las’ year I ran with Mortal Gloom as a Means For Necessary Soulful Transformation — mainly cos 2016 was such a fucker.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” says M.C. with a frown. “Next time I suggest The Self-Perpetuating Bunnyscape of Infinite Happiness as New Year inspiration, you run with it, okay? That virgin blog post of yours probably put millions off astrology for life.”

“Aw, c’mon — you know I’m at my best when I play the plucky Sagittarian rescuin’ hope from the jawsa all-consoomin’ Oblivion.”

“Hey, that’s your delusional self-image and not mine, sister. But I take the point about Oblivion, if only because it’s the one pitch offers scope for a month in the Bahamas instead of merely a night stop in Ontario — minus breakfast.”

“So what’s our angle for 2018? Looks good to Moi right now.”

M.C. perches deftly on the edgea my sofa. “I think so too. New Year AF. 2017 began its brief life choked by stifling backstory — like the second book in a truly lousy trilogy the author will inevitably lose all will to complete. Hope was in short supply, a dark narrative lacking rhyme and reason seemed set to write itself into the history books against many people’s wishes, and my pussy hat unravelled while I was heading over to the New York Women’s March from Pluto.”

“But I guess alla the soulful people done good in the end, right? Battled through difficult times — jus’ like how the bleak Midwinter Solstice warms sure an’ slow into Spring’s rebirth?”

“Exactly.”

“So I can lay on the sugar for my Noo Year blaaahg post this year? Drizzle honey onto the tonguesa the deservedly emboldened?

M.C. nods. “Till it oozes deep down into their bellies or overflows onto their naked breasts.”

“In fuckin’ January?

“Point taken.”

That’s A Story? The Universe’s Prime Celestial Mover Stops By Your Apartment … And You Throw Up? Where’s The Romance In That Scenario?

The Romance is exactly as I pitched it, Sweetie.

An’ this is where we get to the deliciously stoopid deal ‘bout Noo Year.

Thing is, the cyclic astro narrative spins evry year from Aries to Pisces don’t make with the catalytic sparky till the Spring Equinox.

That is the troo kickstart on renewal an’ change an’ shit.

May I recommendya pull onya feels here an’ reflect on that self-evident truth for a sec?

Whicha the followin’ scenarios fillsya heart mostest fulla leapsy boundsy gambollin’ spunky & plucky?

1) It is the Bleak Midwinter. Your butt cheeks been frozen offya shiverin’ body, evry tree been strippeda life, feeble-lookin’ birds hop stutteringly across the barren landscape with nuthin’ but hunger an’ sorrow in their eyes, an’ only a single imaginary fat guy is on hand to bleedya bank account dry an’ fillya so fulla cinnamon-flavored megacarbs you gonna be either constipated solid for a week or squirtin’ liquid figgy puddin’ outta your ass till fuckin’ Valentines.

2) Spring Fever gripsya evry wakin’ molecule an’ you feel so dirty screamin’ horny you wanna wrapya legs round anythin’ that moves an’ buck hard tillya titties squeal for mercy.

Tellya, if’n Noo Year Resolootion came bundled as a Gift Voucher steada an immutable obligation, I figure most evrywan would save it up till the Spring when the planet got way more to offer by waya transformational optimism than GIVE UP SMOKING or LOSE TWO STONE AND LEARN PORTUGUESE.

What the fuck is alla that schwango about anyways?

Surely lame goals an’ prohibitions masqueradin’ as desirable bounties despoil optimism’s iridescent sheen like guano smeared on a Homecomin’ Queen’s eyeballs?

There’s No Arguing With That, I Suppose. So Where Do We Go From Here?

We understand implicitly that like all things astrological, fixed points in time are merely flux-propelled instances conjoined in a wider narrative maxin’ out on eternal sweetness.

Far as Noo Year is concerned, this means we gotta ask how leapsy boundsy Arian overdrive gonna play out when Spring blossoms if’n we ain’t first lived through the las’ three chaptersa the Celestial workbook — specifically the Capricorn section drops like a cannonball evry Trad Reaper Season.

For a different perspective, ask what good any kinda Capricorn resolve gonna be worth when Arian action stations beckon if’n they ain’t first been refined through Winter by Aquarian Perky an’ wider Piscean Dreamostuffs.

Tellya, if’n resolootion an’ change gonna mean anythin’, fixin’ & fluxin’ gotta be amenable to Time’s dynamic ebb an’ flow — or our hearts be naught but stone.

Way I see it, opportoonities for resolootion an’ renewal spring outta evry single incendiary interplanetary dancegasm moment — primarily when the Sun switches sign, but also when other celestial shufflin’around is gowin’ down, like mebbe a sextile shimmy twixt Moon an’ Mercury.

If we wanted, we could all decide to muster annually round resolve an’ change inspired by (for example) Libran values.

Our #resolution tweets would drop in Autumn ‘steada Winter, but they would still pull on the same essential features figure in December/January … like To Do lists, willpower, habit, aspirations an’ goals (only with Libra in the drivin’ seat, recitin’ power mantras would demand pan pipe accompaniment or yodellin’ talents).

Resolve an’ change are equally supermutable an’ eternal, an’ it is only cos we muster in our droves round the Capricornian incarnation that our Noo Year desires an’ redirections pack the particular vibe they do.

Which Is What, O Princess? What Is Specifically Capricornian About The Resolutions We Make — en Masse — For New Year Compared To Commitments To Change We Make (So Often On Our Lonesome) Most Other Times?

Tellya, Capricorn resolootions are such CUNTS.

They take more stamina to make an’ keep, they are seriously life-changin’, an’ they so wanna breakya down before they makeya up big an’ strong an’ successful.

That is what makes ‘em so unapologetically hardcore.

It is like resta the year, you kinda bumble along on a self-regulatin’ morphsy autopilot — cosyin’ up to the Arian resolootion bunny iconography in Spring an’ shiverin’ from Scorpio’s Halloweensy faux rictus demands in Autumn — before

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

goddamn goat-faced REAPER drops onya at deada night an’ whuppies your head clean off with a scythe bigger’n a frickin’ bomber plane wing,

an’ screams …

“You want your life to count for something instead of being trampled underfoot by imbecile hordes, then here is how you must work your determined tits off, day after day, week after week, month after month, until the only flavor your tongue recognises is the sweet taste of total triumph!”

Way I see it, we figure on Noo Year as a time for diligent resolootion fever ‘steada any other particular time not cos there is nuthin’ trooly NEWER gowin’ down December/January than the schwango cracks off resta the year but bcs Capricorn smarts direct us to look in on the hardcore essentials we mebbe shy away from whenever less benevolently oppressive Zodiac energies’re runnin’ the show.

Capricorn says …

Hard reset. No escape. No easy ride.

saturn in capricorn pulled strings on fate back in 1991

Best parta the deal?

The unpalatable beautya 2018’s Capricornian resolootion swing is how it throws in a full 3 yearsa unrelentin’ transformational grindo to GUARANTEE we pick ourselves up an’ smarten our fuckin’ acts, big time.

(See — this is what I meant when I told Mother Cosmosis I was gonna lay on the sugar.)

Coolest resolvin’ revolver we got rn is Saturn spinnin’ his almighty frickin’ wheelhouse in Capricorn till 2020 — so any changes you powerin’ up now gonna play for keeps.

2018 is “New Year AF” till 2020 precisely cos hardcore transformation opportoonities be thunderin’ the hell outta the Cosmos an’ not jus’ the calendar.

It is not down to Moi to decide forya what changes to make or stick with, still less to proclaim from on Sagittarian high that unlessya take full advantagea this once-in-a-generation opportoonity for self-mastery as manifested in unashamedly practical resolootion an’ transformationstuffs you are a real fuckin’ dumb-as-shit slacker deserves the Universe to gobbleya up — I merely wanna point out how significant is this momentary epoch beyond

hey, yesterday it was like 2017 … and now it is like 2018! Ain’t that just the craziest thing you ever heard? Maybe we should let off some fireworks to celebrate … or go get a pizza or something.

Then What Are You Saying? What Does “New Year AF” Even Mean?

Think back to August 18th. Or April 29th. Or October 7th. Or whenevah.

You got no frickin’ Noo Year gowin’ down anya these times, no fanciful pan-globe kiss-up gonna carry evrywan along on a transformation ticket.

Prolly these were nuthinny kindsa days, I dunno.

You wake up, go work or class, hang out with friends, go bed.

Less’n you keep a journal or it wasya birthday or aliens abductedya pets, prolly these dates plucked outta the air at random by Moi mean fuck all other than … they happened.

But if astrology means anythin’ at all, its power lies forever in how it is LIVE — same as YOUR LIFE — an’ when eacha these days was the eternal present moment, no way were they about fuck all!

Down the ages, philosophers been thinkin’ a shitload ‘bout time.

Truth is, they been at it so long prolly they shoulda figured the fucker out by now, I dunno.

But one thing ‘bout time seems forever to be true is how it is a kinda container for supermomentary mortal feelin’.

Eacha those days I mentioned framed real specific feelings you had — a POV an’ precursor to action can never seep out beyond the moment gave it suck.

You got memories now, mebbe had expectations way back, but only on those days didya trooly feel an’ understand what they were as they played out beforeya eyes.

Good or bad, fulla portent or inconsequential, hamster abduction nightmare or no, your transformation through time on these days (an’ howya feelings ‘bout alla that bucked the odds on transformation potential for the fyooture) was prolly not so much different from the opportoonity available when Trad Noo Year drops

You either touch base with dancea your mojo & life circumstance an’ howya wanna take yourself forward … orya do not.

Stoopid says … pickin’ on a moment in time plucked from an arbitrarily imposed calendar an’ expectin’ miracles to happen jus’ cos evry fucker else is playin’ along is a surefire way to SUCCESS NIRVANA! (Leastaways, till mebbe January 21st, when evrythin’ falls apart.)

Smart says … today is like evry other day … August 18th to April 29th to October 7th to whenevah. It is no more nor no less special than any other day beyond it is my own precious time to be alive an’ act/reflect on how the gifts I bring to the table might benefit myself an’ others — an’ our poor, beleaguered planet.

If’n you real committed ‘bout your life an’ potential, if’n you ain’t here to jus’ idle along an’ fuck around like fodder in sumone else’s stoopid schemes, this kinda daily diligence regardin’ howya wanna be prolly gonna takeya sumplace you want.

Real deal you got right now depends on groundin’ out more on mebbe what don’t feel so snug an’ comfy — askin’ yourself whatchya prepared to do to figure on buildin’ sum real cool shit for yourself come 2020 gonna max out on hardcore benefits if only opportoonity came rollin’ along.

Bcs 2018 is Noo Year AF — an’ Capricornian opportoonity gonna roll hard an’ regular till 2020 like a boulder primed to flatten all opposition.

That clear?

Title Image c/o cocoparisienne @ Pixabay

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<span class="sdata" title="6"></span> <span class="sdata" title="03, 2017"></span>

The Astrology Compatibility Mindfuckola

By |<span class="sdata2" title="2018-07-02T18:27:48+00:00"></span>|Blendyjuicy, Choice, Cosmic Roolz, Fate, Relationships, Washing Machine|0 Comments

THE ASTROLOGY COMPATIBILITY MINDFUCKOLA

In the wild an’ wacky worlda astrology, compatibility is the darnedest hot potater, tellya.

Alla that schwango about surefire an’ pre-ordained waysta bag the PERFECT soulmate for the PERFECT life with PERFECT you — is it really true?

Is it really gonna work?

More specifically, are alla those astrological mismatches doomedta fail?

Aw Gosh, I Hope Not! I Am In Such A Mismatch Relationship — And It Is Bliss! Please Don’t Tell Me I’m Being Delusional!

Tellya, textbook astrology compatibility scenarios orbit the internets, their dream solutions lit up by the twinklea the prediction-packin’ STARS.

Aries, you got Leo an’ Sagittarius — for fully flamed on love an’ adventure gonna rock out on verve an’ action.

An’ Taurus, you got Virgo an’ Capricorn — for a long term power duet fulla stability an’ trust gonna lastya.

Gemini, Libra an’ Aquarius can mix an’ match in infinitely intellect-tinglin’ ways, with plentya options for spicin’ up blendyjuicy’s boudoir.

An’ for full-on romance, spirityool bondin’ an’ tenderness, Cancer, Scorpio an’ Pisces make out in mebbe true love’s most expansive aquarium/desert area.

Leastaways, that is the kinda stuff I wrote out in my forthcomin’ Handy Astro Guides — an’ I got no desireta diss my own predictive fortune-dishin’ prowessitude aheada their release.

Hey! Quit Trying To Sell Shit Don’t Exist Yet, Princess! What Do You Think You Are — A Fucking Astrologer?

Hey — I dance an’ do yoga also, so go pick on sumone elseta rideya trope-assed one-trick pony round the Limited Talents theme park.

Point is, while these cosy, ‘single element’ matchups inviteyata tie up their fated certainties all sweet with a big ole booby doo ribbon — an’ even srsly mutant relationships like Taurus-Pisces an’ Gemini-Aries got cool link-up potential — the implication seemsta be that certain other combinations are kinda fuckoed from the outset, an’ ifya are stoopid beyond stoopid enoughta step out in such a maligned direction seekin’ eternal happiness an’ romance, the evil spirits patrollin’ the negative enda Fate’s spectrum gonna pee in a bucket bigger’n Saturn an’ sloosh it all over the bothaya in a surprise tsunami cataclysm whenya least expect it (most notably evry Monday, evry Tuesday, evry Wednesday…).

Cosmic Roolz’re clear.

Ifya are in anya these relationships…

Fixed Fixed — any comboa Taurus, Leo, Scorpio & Aquarius*

Cardinal Cardinal — any blenda Aries, Cancer, Libra, Capricorn

Mutable Mutable — mix an’ match Gemini, Virgo, Sagittarius, Pisces

* though not all four together, cos that would be filth.

…then eternal misery be thine — on a platter, inya face, prolly even swampin’ ya armpits as an irritatin’ rash.

(Yeah, yeah — I know there are special weirdsy rules for polar opposites attractin’, but I am tryin’ to be super scientific here by glossin’ over that to make a pointa fact. It is the way right now in 2017, dontchya know.)

Thing is, life is fulla relationships break the rules alla the time.

See on Facebook where they got mice snugglin’ upta cats?

An’ on YouToob, where they got bear cub meets fawn for first time an’ baby monkey gowin’ backwards on a pig?

Sure, in life’s menagerie, you don’t get the kinda oppositesya see bustin’ outta the zodiac — what in hell would the oppositea a giraffe look like anyway? — but with the right beest whisperer an’ camera crew, most any *impossible!* combo is … possible.

(‘cept for mebbe a python an’ a shark — or an eagle an’ onea them creepy underground salamanders with no eyes an’ skin smoother than a dick pulsin’ out all woody.)

An’ you gotta admit — impossible or curious or plain weird combinations make the world spin sweeter.

FFS! First You Scare Me Into Thinking That My Perfectly Happy Relationship Is Compromised In Some Way — And Now You’re Insinuating That I’m Impossible Or Curious Or Plain Weird. Aaaand You Said I Was Stoopid Beyond Stoopid. Why Should I Read Any Further?

Read? Hey — you’re practically writin’ this thing!

But I guess that is my point.

Cosmic Roolz though there may be, it don’t meanya can’t break ‘em from timeta time — an’ neither does it mean nuthin’ gonna work ifya go break ‘em big time, nor even that no bountiful an’ happiness-packed good can ever come buzzin’ like kissed-out hunny bees from a union hitched up on the edgea OBLIVION.

Gotta figure there’re plentya godawful mismatches out there among people with no clue ‘bout astrology don’t even know how fuckoed they truly are.

“Let’s make out in the woods, where I can stick my tongue in your throat till you howl like a wolf,” says she, havin’ never consulted a horoscope, never checked in on astrology compatibility — an’ never found out she is Sagittarius.

“Fine,” says he, consultin’ a list longer than the Bayeux Frickin’ Tapestry, “but there’s the cleaning to do first — not to mention the administration, the ironing, and planning for our vacation in 2029. So why don’t you go walk the dog for a couple hours, and when everything here is spotless, I’ll wash and iron the bedsheets so they’re spankingly pristine and clean, and we can spend the rest of the day fucking one another’s brains out so hard and so good that this little ol’ place we call home will make the national news as an earthquake zone registering 9 on the Richter scale.”

(Most Virgos are smart enoughta know they are Virgos, but this guy is clearly a relative halfwit in that department.)

Thenya got other relationships pullin’ in some real power whoopee from a union fated to collapse don’t even realise their beautylicious existence depends entirely on rules they got no idea their amour flaunts — kinda like Donald Rumsfeld’s unknown unknowns, only with more provocative undergarments an’ mouth-wateringly curvaceouser insertables.

“Take me from behind! In a costume! Mouthing stream of consciousness gibberish in Ancient Greek!”

“Handcuffed to the ceiling and free swinging like a pendulum — or with the both of us sealed in the leather cocoon I hand-crafted from prime buffalo hide in my secret mountain hideaway?”

(Any fully functional Libra-Capricorn pairings out there recognize this scenario? I figureya gotta have not the faintest frickin’ clue what is gowin’ on astrologically, spiritually — an’ prolly even financially — to enjoy that baby.)

Gotta figure also that Moons an’ risin’ signs, Venus an’ Mars — an’ even frickin’ Plooto — all got plentya inflooence down deep in the astrological mix.

Coupla mismatched Sun signs up top could work out real sweet if evrythin’ links up compatible an’ perfect down deep inya planetary undercarriage.

Want my opinion?

This whole system is a frickin’ mess, tellya.

What Do You Propose As A Solution To This Astrology Compatibility Conundrum, O Princess? (And I Must Tell You Here That I Am Only Sticking Around Because That Last Part About Ironing The Bedsheets Really Turned Me On And I’m Hoping For More Of The Same, Preferably Involving A Washing Machine, Please.)

Ha!

We kneelin’ on top together — or layin’ our fanjos out flat on the metalwork for max vibe power?

I guess the thing is, this whole astrology compatibility deal is all about how adventurous you wanna be.

How comfortable, how risky, how rhythmically functional, how fraught with peril.

‘Steada Cosmic Roolz — unbreakable — gotta figure on a hierarchya possiblilities — all makeable (but mebbe with consequences).

Playin’ for the home team is prolly easier than mixin’ it up with the away side — allaya Mojo Suite (emotional, sexyool, spiritual, financial, practical, aspirational etc) fully catered for an’ powerin’ out inta the blue on a tightly defined directive ticket — but the green grass on the other sidea the hill got advantages also, as in how that very same Mojo Suite gonna mebbe bust out on a more uncertain an’ potentially rewardin’ growth ticket, pullin’ in challenges, setbacks an’ unexpected discoveries as furniture an’ dinner plates are thrown about at random.

An’ I would wantchya to think about that.

Earth, Air, Fire an’ Water all got their own ways they wanna be.

A Fire partnership mebbe gonna be intrinsically more volatile than its Earth counterpart, but it still has a tightly defined directive ticket.

Not so the Sagittarius-Virgo relationship I mentioned earlier, before I sat up top on the washin’ machine withya to drill down, max spin, on my concludin’ vibe.

In this relationship, Sagittarius gonna open Virgo up sum, an’ I wantchyata know how powerful a force this kinda Earth Revved up by Fire combo can be.

Gotta thinka Star Wars here — only insteada the Jedi pluckin’ Luke Skywalker from his day-to-day tedium, they chose Cinderella.

On the flipside, what does Sagittarius really need?

Another fire sign stokin’ ‘em up, aggravatin’ their violent tendencies, an’ urgin’ ‘em to yell CUNT! alla the time?

Not always.

Jus’ as the Cinderella story got its own transformational punch, there are plentya cool narratives out there in books an’ movies feature the upstart whupped inta shape an’ saved from herself by sum kinda ‘informed master’ figure— or himself ifya are thinkin’ Dr Strange … an’ I wanna thinka Dr Strange, trooly I do, O Benedict, Benedict, Benedict…

Ahem.

As anyone watches Joopiter an’ Saturn knows, journeys can be equally about expansion an’ compromise, abandon an’ rigor, exploration an’ diligence — an’ sumtimes these qualities flip over.

For Sajjo, is not the Virgoan rulebook a kinda ultimate wilderness survival escapade, diligence turned exploration?

“I am Sagittarius — romping o’er hill and dale in search of freedom, tail swishing freely about my gorgeously toned equine ass.”

“Fine. But I am Virgo — and I’m gonna sit you on a rock in the middle of the ocean till you quit fucking around and squandering your life. Want freedom? Okay, so go wanderlust yourself the heck outta that panorama, you self-destructive bohemian buffoon!”

An’ on the flippo…

“I am Virgo — passionately bound to routines and strategies for teasing precisely what I want from life with my forensically-honed cerebellular colossus.”

“Fine. But I am Sagittarius — and I want you to know you are wasted in that stupid lab working for that asshole takes advantage of your generosity. So I say we move to Japan, throw out all our old clothes, and get you the intermittent urinary catheter design technician’s salary your nitpicky fucking brain deserves.”

For Virgo, is not Sajjo’s boundless optimism an’ lust for travel kinda compromise transformed into expansion? Diligence turned into exploration?

Same intrinsic Virgo deal, only bigger an’ better?

I am only speculatin’ here, an’ I am only usin’ a few limited examples, but I hopeya get the picture.

First The Washing Machine…And Now The Intermittent Urinary Catheter! Are You Trying To Bring Me Off Here Or What?

Hey, I jus’ wanna bring evryone onboard here.

With the deal.

See, astrology is not set in stone.

FFS alla the planets’re spinnin’ in thinnest vapor, an’ mosta ‘em are either ice, gas or crap.

Only permanence is the math underlyin’ their synchronized flingo (an’ I will say more about that another time).

Rest is kinda open season — energies an’ archetypes playin’ out as pan-MMORPG narrative.

Truth is, fate is options, choices, decisions.

Hard an’ easy. Sweet an’ bloody. Washin’ machine an’ intermittent urinary catheter.

An’ much as we wanna hitch evrythin’ up all perfect astrology compatibility fixed done sunset credits roll, sumtimes…

…oh, jus’ a few sweet sumtimes…

… the rightest wrong person ever swoops inta our life from outta frickin’ nowhere — an’ we gotta be real smart ‘bout what we choose gonna happen next…

Title Image c/o Alexas-Fotos @ Pixabay

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